


home (alleyways and payphone calls)

by tsuruko



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Semi-established relationship, small drug warning (weed mentions)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 20:41:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4494021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsuruko/pseuds/tsuruko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ronan ponders home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	home (alleyways and payphone calls)

**Author's Note:**

> hello fronds I wrote this a while back but was too nervous to post it here until just now. waves hands at the words below please be kind! Rovinsky is my favorite and I don't believe they would have destroyed the world together. Special thanks to Ana and Sara, who always have kind, motivational words when all I want to talk about it Rovinsky.

Ronan doesn’t know when it was, exactly, that Kavinsky decided to make himself at home in his apartment, but he knows it couldn’t have been that long ago. Kavinsky is like a stray cat in the way that if you feed them once, they’ll return, over and over again until eventually you’re telling people stories that start with, “the other day, my cat,” and by then, you’re in too deep, because, yeah, okay, he’s kinda cute and purrs when he’s in your lap. Three weeks ago, he thinks, is when it started, but it’s getting increasingly difficult to remember a time that Kavinsky wasn’t there beside Ronan or on his mind somehow. It’s gross, almost, he feels smitten in this weird way that he assumed was a myth, like the stories he’s heard of high school girls, but when he nudges his front door open and just  _feels_  that Kavinsky is there, waiting for him, Ronan thinks that this must be what coming home really feels like.   
  
The apartment is quiet save from the low buzz of the TV. Ronan drops his bag on the floor by the door on top of a pair of shoes that aren’t his, beside a backpack and hat that aren’t his, either. If the warmth of being waited for and the soft glow peeking around the corner weren’t enough…   
  
Kavinsky’s on his stomach on the infamously lumpy garage sale couch, face half hidden in a pillow stolen from Ronan’s bed and, seemingly, peacefully asleep. His hair hangs down on his forehead, sweatshirt riding up just enough for Ronan to see his three favorite freckles on Kavinsky’s lower back, and he’s torn between the obvious choice of waking him up, asking about dinner plans and how many people Kavinsky flipped off that day, or nudging him sideways enough to sneak in a nap of his own with Kavinsky snuggled to his side.   
  
He ducks away long enough to change clothes and start laundry (tossing in Kavinsky’s clothes he’d left over the night before, and the night before that) and kneels down beside Kavinsky’s elbow, arms folded and tucked out of sight under the pillow.   
  
“Wake up, mooch,” Ronan mutters, entirely too fond, and brushes the stray hairs behind Kavinsky’s ear, watching him slowly wake up, blink the dream out of his eyes. Kavinsky would nap for hours if Ronan didn’t prod him awake, and reheated Thai take-out from the place just off campus on the other end of town isn’t the same when dining alone.   
  
Ronan thinks that’s how this started.   
  
Kavinsky hums this terrible, contented hum. It does funny things to the butterflies in Ronan’s gut. “Mornin’, babe,” he drawls, thick with sleep, when he cracks his eyes open. “When’d you get home?”   
  
The way Kavinsky says  _home_  about Ronan’s apartment makes Ronan believe that maybe creating a home for himself was easier than he had been led on. Kavinsky says  _home_  like there’s no other word in the three languages he speaks somewhat fluently to describe “his definitely-not-boyfriend’s apartment.” The butterflies stirring in Ronan’s gut flutter in anticipation, but of what, he isn’t ever sure. The way Kavinsky says  _home_  makes Ronan feel like that’s what they have there, that they’re onto something.   
  
Fingertips tuck against Ronan’s jaw, pull his gaze back up from where it had wandered, back up to Kavinsky’s sleepy smile. Butterflies again. He thinks that maybe they’re growing. 

“Couple minutes ago,” Ronan tells him, shying away from how close they are with a quick kiss to Kavinsky’s palm. “Get up, I want to eat.”   
  
They part ways—Ronan to reheat leftovers and Kavinsky, with a noisy stretch, out to the balcony, familiar heady scent trailing in after him—and reconvene not more than a handful of minutes later when Ronan pads out onto the balcony, kissing the smoke from Kavinsky’s lungs, feeling him buzz against Ronan’s lips. With an exchange of whispered words, Ronan inhales ever so slowly from the not-cigarette between Kavinsky’s fingertips, exhales to share with the small smattering of stars in the city sky. They giggle like teenagers, stoned and lovey, and Kavinsky sucks a mark into Ronan’s neck that feels the way ‘I missed you,’ sounds, pulling away only when Ronan mumbles a promise of microwave-warmed coconut curry and what’s left of the beer in the fridge.   
  
Legs tangle when they seat themselves, Kavinsky’s legs tucked under himself and Ronan’s knees across his lap, and bowls and beers nearly spilt, but when Kavinsky begs him to settle on the History Channel (really, it’s when Ronan’s honeyed train of thought catches on the first word of aliens) and feeds Ronan a bite of sauce-dipped chicken and rice, Ronan knows that this  _is_  home. That laying there, high and happy and smiling at Kavinsky’s laugh after the longest day, is more than Ronan deserves by miles, leaps and bounds, but he would fight for that kind of happiness until time stopped for him.


End file.
